


capable of terrible things

by apinchofcyanide



Series: the devil trying to hold me down [2]
Category: Batman: Arkham - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 08:58:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15239913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apinchofcyanide/pseuds/apinchofcyanide
Summary: With his free hand, Jason wipes away a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. “You don’t know a thing about me, old man."





	capable of terrible things

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place sometime during _Arkham Knight: Genesis_.
> 
> **Please make sure to read the note at the end.**

“ _He has a soft spot where you are concerned_ ,” Scarecrow tells him, voice a pale, wheezing imitation, distorted by his deformities and the mask and the shitty reception of the video feed.

Jason shifts uncomfortably, the idea of Slade Wilson having a ‘soft spot’ for _anyone_ highly disconcerting, and bordering on laughable. “I’m paying him a lot of money not to put a bullet in my head,” he shrugs. “He’s got incentive.”

Scarecrow ignores him. “ _I think it scares him_ ,” he says. He sounds pleased.

–

_“Don’t you see, sonny-boy?” The Joker placed his hands on either side of Jason’s face, applying uncomfortable pressure as he twisted Jason’s head back and forth. “Bats never cared about you. He gets bored of his toys so easily, that one. But you know what they say: one man’s trash and all that! Ha ha!”_

_“S-stop…” Jason tried to plead, but the word came out weak and broken, his voice hoarse from overuse. Screaming for hours on end tended to do that._

_“Aw, little birdie, don’t get your tail-feathers in a twist.” The Joker ruffled his hair. “I just call ‘em like I see ‘em, kiddo!”_

_The door opened and Boles stuck his head through. “Time’s up, Joker.”_

_The Joker gave an exaggerated pout. “Just when things were starting to get good.”_

_“Don’t worry, darling!” he called as Boles began to pull him from the room. “They can’t keep us apart forever!”_

Jason wakes drenched in a cold sweat, hand closed around the gun he keeps under his pillow. For a moment he expects that fucking clown to materialize out of the darkness, grin wide and jaundiced eyes alight, but of course the room is empty. There’s no one but Jason, and his ghosts.

He grabs blindly for his phone and dials the first number that comes to mind. “Downtown bunker. Twenty minutes.” He hangs up before Slade can get a word in.

Slade shows up at the bunker in a pair of sweatpants and a ratty t-shirt, and Jason is momentarily taken aback. He’s never seen Slade without his suit, even though Slade has taken to not wearing his mask around Jason lately. He’s in incredible shape for a man dubiously in his fifties. Still, the sight of him in what amounts to his pajamas makes him seem incredibly vulnerable. The fact that he’s willing to appear vulnerable around Jason at all is—alarming.

He thinks about what Scarecrow said. _He has a soft spot_. For some reason the thought makes Jason furious. That’s good. He knows how to deal with anger.

“What’s so important that you had to interrupt my _Real Housewives_ marathon?” Slade asks.

Jason says nothing. As soon as Slade is close enough, he strikes.

Slade is unbelievably fast, and unbelievably strong. Jason knew this, but it’s one thing to see Slade in action as Deathstroke, and another to see him like this—muscles rippling beneath his skin, the veins in his arms and neck straining, and the almost hungry look on his face as he realizes that Jason is holding nothing back.

Thoughts of the clown, thoughts of Scarecrow and his nonsense, all flee Jason’s mind as he loses himself to the violence of the fight. Slade isn’t gentle with him, and Jason revels in every punch and kick that lands, because they remind him that he’s _here_ , he’s not in that horrible room anymore, he’s alive and he can _fight back_ and—

Bruce wouldn’t approve.

The thought, intrusive and unwanted, is enough to make him stumble, and that’s all the opening Slade needs. He sends Jason to the floor, hard enough to knock the breath out of him, and straddles him, hand around Jason’s throat. His grip is not quite tight enough to cut off Jason’s airway, but the promise of danger sends an unexpected chill down Jason’s spine.

“Mind telling me what all this is about?” Slade’s tone is mildly curious. He’s hardly even winded, while Jason feels like he just ran a marathon.

“Fuck you, Wilson,” Jason spits.

Slade smirks, the scar where his eye should be gleaming white in the weak fluorescent light. “You fight like you’ve got something to prove,” he observes. “It makes you sloppy, and weak.”

Jason’s face burns, and something stirs in the pit of his stomach. Panic wells up like bile in his throat. “Fuck. You,” he says again.

“You wanna know what I think?” Slade’s tone suggests that he’s going to give his opinion whether Jason wants it or not. “I think this is about the Bat. I think after all these years you’re _still_ trying to prove to him that you’re worth saving.”

Jason ignores the words, even as they twist in his gut like a knife. During his spiel Slade has relaxed a little, his grip on Jason’s throat going slack. He assumes that the fight is over, that Jason will give up now that he’s down. It is all the opportunity Jason needs.

 _Deathstroke is a formidable opponent_ , Bruce had once told him, _but he’s over-confident in his abilities. It’s his fatal flaw_.

With a sudden burst of energy Jason bucks up, managing to unseat Slade and in the same movement sweeping him to the floor, using a combination of Slade’s surprise and his own momentum to propel him up so that their positions are reversed—Jason straddling Slade’s lap, with the blade Jason had been hiding in his boot pressed beneath Slade’s chin.

“Cheating,” Slade says, a darkly amused twist to his lips.

With his free hand, Jason wipes away a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. “You don’t know a thing about me, old man,” he says. Still, Slade’s words play over and over in his head, a broken record.

 _You’re still trying to prove to him that you’re worth saving_.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. If this story/premise seems familiar to you, it's because you've probably read it before. I'm reposting my fic, all of which was taken down by AO3 a few weeks ago. It's fine, I'm totally over it. (Narrator: She wasn't.) I'm absolutely sick that all of your lovely comments and kudos from the first time around were deleted. If you find it in your heart to read this story again and comment or leave kudos, you're the best, and I love you. If you're reading this for the first time and you enjoy it, you're also the best, and I love you.


End file.
